


head full of darkness

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s13e04 The Big Empty, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 19:59:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12614308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: “That, uh, thing you do,” Dean starts.“You want me to be someone,” Mia cuts him off. (13.04 coda.)





	head full of darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Super hastily banged-out coda to 13.04, because this episode was BEGGING for this scene to be included and it's a damn waste that they didn't have this happen.
> 
> Title is from "Shovels and Dirt" by the Strumbellas. I'm on Tumblr at [sunbeamdean](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com).

“Have a seat.”

Self-conscious, Dean shoves Mia’s business card deeper into the pocket of his jacket as he drops onto her couch. He doesn’t want her seeing it, how crumpled it got in his fist or the splash of a beer stain across the corner. Shit, this is embarrassing enough.

“Mr. Winchester,” she says, her face way too many angles on concern and empathy. It makes Dean’s teeth itch. “Dean.”

Dean’s not playing this game. He tips his chin up, his hands in fists in his pockets.

Mia sighs. “You’re here because you want something from me. I know how this works.”

“I can pay,” Dean says. “Goods and services, whatever.”

“I’m not concerned about that.” A little crease deepens between her eyebrows. “You sounded—distraught when you called me.”

Dean swallows. He doesn’t remember the minutia of their phone call or how many beers he had to down to make it in the first place. He remembers scrolling through his stupid, stupidly long text history with Cas, and he remembers trying to picture the contours of Cas’ face, and he remembers the tight squeeze of panic in his chest when his memory came back blurry. “That, uh, thing you do,” he starts.

“You want me to be someone,” she cuts him off.

Mia’s office is well-lit, well-furnished, neat and nice. It’s not right. Dean’s got grime under his fingernails, a still-healing scab across his cheek, a black hole in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “How does this, you know, work?”

“You show me—something. Video is best, but pictures do in a pinch. How did your mother die?”

The knot under Dean’s ribcage draws tighter. “Not—uh.” Mary came back once. Cas has come back a whole handful of times. And here’s Dean, selfish and terrified, craving more time than what he already got from the angel with nine lives. He saw Cas’ wings burned into the ground, didn’t he? But he can’t ever fucking let go.

Mia’s eyes widen fractionally. She’s good at her job. “Someone else, then.”

Dean shoves his phone across the couch. Mia has to half-stand so she can reach for it from her chair.

There’s Cas on the screen. First he’s in profile, then he turns. Dean didn’t mean to take so many pictures—only to get Cas looking down at the mix tape he’d just received, the incredulous and flattered tilt of his mouth. Distracted, he let his thumb stay too long on the camera button, and he got it all: Cas smiling, looking up at Dean, a stray curl of hair falling across his forehead with the movement. It plays on loop while Mia watches.

“Okay,” she says. She’s quiet for a moment. She swipes, but the next thing in Dean’s camera roll is a badly-lit shot of a dead body. Another swipe, and there’s Cas again. Full-body this time, perched on one of the bunker’s kitchen chairs and scowling down at the Thursday crossword puzzle. “Okay,” Mia repeats.

Jaw clenched, Dean snatches his phone back. “I don’t have video,” he says. “Just, uh.”

A couple clumsy clicks is all it takes. Cas’ phone doesn’t ring anymore. “This is my voicemail. Make your voice a mail.”

Mia laughs, a sharp sound that ends too quick as she gives Dean an apologetic glance. “He was funny, wasn’t he?”

“Can you do it or not?”

Her expression softens again. “Close your eyes.”

 

The door creaks open and footsteps shuffle on the carpet. Dean keeps his eyes shut, his pulse thrumming crazy fast in his own ears.

There’s a rustle of fabric and the couch moves under the weight of a second body. The silence stretches, thins, and then Cas’ voice: “Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says.

“Can you look at me?”

“No,” Dean says, but he opens his eyes.

All the details are right. Chapped lips, pink mouth; tired lines curving under his eyes; Cas’ face, square-jawed and peppered with stubble and so close that Dean can see the small shift of his Adam’s apple as he watches Dean for a reaction.

“Shit,” Dean says.

“Not exactly.” Cas’ eyes crinkle at the corners with a fleeting smile. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“ _Shit._ ” The word tears out of Dean’s throat. “No, man, I do—I really, uh. I watched you die.”

It’s not Cas. It’s _not_ Cas. Dean’s met his share of things that look like Cas, things wearing Cas’ skin, dreams of Cas that scattered by the morning. He should know the difference. But when Cas cocks his head to the side and holds a hand out, palm up, Dean decides he doesn’t give a fuck. The real Cas is never gonna know how fast Dean reaches for him, how easy their fingers slot together, or how tight Dean hangs onto him.

“I wish you hadn’t had to see that,” Cas says. His tie’s crooked, Dean notices, and the sight makes Dean’s eyes prickle. He smooths it out with his free hand. Cas’ chest is solid.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “me too, buddy. You weren’t supposed to—it wasn’t supposed to happen again.”

Cas is quiet, his gaze on Dean’s face. He rubs his thumb against the back of Dean’s palm and it’s solid, real.

“Listen, I—” Dean has to clear his throat again.

“Dean.” Cas shifts closer, until their thighs brush. “You don’t need to tell me you’re sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean says, and the name claws out of him on the coattails of a sob that won’t be wrestled back inside. His eyes are wet and his nose hurts with the backlog of tears that want their freedom. “Can you just…”

Before Dean can make the move, Cas has gathered him up. He’s broad all the way down, tucking Dean up against him with arms around his waist and chin on top of Dean’s head. Dean scrabbles like an idiot for a second before his hands find Cas’ hips, easy handholds under the canvas swath of Cas’ trenchcoat. _Mia really is good_ , he thinks before dismissing the thought as a pointless whisper of reality.

There’s nothing but the sound of Dean’s breathing, the watery edge to it making him too loud and obvious. Then Cas slides a hand up, cupping the back of Dean’s head with long fingers. “It’s okay,” he says. His voice is a ragged rasp, like he’s thinking of crying too. “I miss you, too. You should know that.”

Dean hiccups on the next sob, so sudden he can’t curtail it. He buries his face in the warm hollow at the base of Cas’ throat. Cas doesn’t smell like anything—it should be laundry detergent and engine grease—but it’s close enough. It’s good enough that Dean clutches him tighter, cries harder, and lets Cas stroke his hair. Rhythmic, repetitive, until the tears are wrung out of him and he can feel the insistent tug of shame at the back of his awareness.

When Dean looks up, Cas doesn’t move. His mouth’s right there, his eyes are worried and kind. He quirks his eyebrows, like he’s just waiting for Dean to dare to close the distance between them.

Dean licks his lips. His hands shake, and he pulls them back before Cas can feel.

“You don’t get it,” he says. “I’m—I don’t know if I’m gonna bounce back from this one. Not this time.”

Cas’ hand drops, fingertips against Dean’s neck and palm cradling his jaw. “You will. Trust me.”

Dean does. He still does, after everything. “I’m trying my best,” he says.

A smile flickers across Cas’ features again. “I know you are,” he says. “You always do.”

Dean steels himself. He doesn’t kiss Cas, but he thinks about it for a long, dizzying second. “I—you gotta know I… Cas, I mean—”

“I know.” Cas leans in and Dean’s stomach lurches, but the kiss lands on Dean’s forehead. Cas’ lips are dry. “Me too.”

 _Fuck._ Dean’s a coward and he always has been. He stumbles to his feet and he turns tail and he runs, trailing the first handful of bills he can scavenge out of his wallet while he’s on the move.

He slings himself into the Impala with his heart pounding and tear tracks drying on his face. He squeezes the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white and he breathes. There’s a discount bottle of Jack waiting for him under his pillow in the bunker. There’s Sam and Jack and there’s Cas’ empty bedroom.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Maybe he underpaid Mia and she’s pissed, but he’s not going back to make that one right.

It buzzes again as he’s peeling onto the highway, but he doesn’t check it until he stops for gas at the state border.

_Two (2) Missed Calls: Castiel._


End file.
